


A Hell Of A Thing, Exploding Trees

by pepperlandgirl4



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8266576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperlandgirl4/pseuds/pepperlandgirl4
Summary: He respected Winters. He was fond of the man. He trusted him. They had a good time, shared some laughs, and he was proud that Winters considered him a friend. But occasionally something as startling, as horrifying, as exploding trees would overtake him. The earth would tilt beneath his feet, raw heat would flare in his chest and spread south, his eyes watered, his head spun. His groin would tighten, and he had a difficult time walking. 
Nixon recognized the sensation. He could even acknowledge the truth. Sometimes a tree would explode, and sometimes he was a little bit in love with Major Winters.





	

He sat in the uneasy darkness with his back against the dirt wall, his legs stretched in front of him. He finished the VAT-69 and rested the empty bottle between his knees. The second one of the day. 

Nix held his hand up in front of his face, less than an inch away, but he couldn’t see it at all. No moon, no stars, no fire, and no sound. His mind drifted as sleep eluded him. He could still hear the echoes from the bombs and mortars, could still see the sparks and fire, could still hear the death rattle. 

Nixon never thought he’d deal with exploding trees. He could honestly say that it never occurred to him. Bombs? Sure. Germans using his ass for target practice? Of course. He even expected to freeze his balls off. He just never made room in his mind for exploding trees. 

A hell of a thing. Exploding trees. 

But the trees didn’t keep him awake at night, and neither did the sub-zero temperatures. He could sleep through physical discomfort now. He remembered the big, four-poster bed he had shared with Cathy. He remembered bitching about the lumpy mattress. He remembered he didn’t like to sleep with four blankets, but she couldn’t be persuaded to take even one off the bed. Huddled in his foxhole, thinking about exploding trees, he tried to remember why it had been so goddamned important. 

Nix knew one thing for sure. If he ever made it back, he’d never bitch about that bed again. She could sleep with five down quilts in the middle of August if it made her happy. 

Exploding trees and love. A hell of a thing. 

He respected Winters. He was fond of the man. He trusted him. They had a good time, shared some laughs, and he was proud that Winters considered him a friend. But occasionally something as startling, as horrifying, as exploding trees would overtake him. The earth would tilt beneath his feet, raw heat would flare in his chest and spread south, his eyes watered, his head spun. His groin would tighten, and he had a difficult time walking. 

Nixon recognized the sensation. He could even acknowledge the truth. Sometimes a tree would explode, and sometimes he was a little bit in love with Major Winters. 

He suspected that every man in Easy Company, at one point or another, was a little bit in love with Major Winters. A little bit in love with the ideal of Major Winters. Calm, cool, brilliant, good. Why not revere him? He led the best company in the army, and he made it look effortless. He made everything look effortless. 

Sometimes, Nixon was a little bit jealous of Major Winters. 

 

He reached for his empty bottle. Leaning forward, he realized the foxhole was the approximate size of a grave. 

His grave. 

He was dead. The thought hit him like a mortar, exploding behind his eyes, and he couldn’t shake it. 

This is death, in a tiny hole in a ground, with no friends, no warmth, no booze. Nix held his breath, straining his ears for the sound of his own heart, but he heard nothing. Not even the sporadic sound of a machine gun firing into the night. 

_Don’t be stupid, Lew. You aren’t dead._

Well, how did he know? What if death was just a void? Fuck that light at the end of the tunnel bullshit. He never saw a look of peace in those boys’ eyes, only terrible, consuming fear. Only blackness. 

_Ok, you’re dead. You’re in purgatory or whatever. And it’s still as cold as Bastogne? Shouldn’t it be more toasty?_

Maybe. He opened his mouth, desperate to hear even the sound of his own voice, but he couldn’t get enough air to speak. His chest seized, his heart pounded. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe. If he wasn’t dead now, he would be soon. He couldn’t feel his legs or his arms. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but his hands weren’t attached to his body any longer. 

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

“Medic,” his mind shouted, but his lips didn’t move. “Medic, medic, medic…” Nobody heard him, nobody came. 

_Calm down._ It wasn’t Nixon’s voice. _Calm down._

Yeah, Dick, yeah. Yeah, no problem. No problem.

Breathe. Breathe.

Nixon exhaled slowly, his lungs burning with the effort. He gulped for more air, and it stung the back of his throat and sinuses. 

_Your legs are asleep, that’s all. Your toes and fingers are frozen. Gotta get up. Gotta get moving._

Nixon winced and pulled his knees up to his chest. Blood immediately rushed to his toes, burning his shins and feet. Bracing himself against the narrow walls, he forced himself to his feet. “Oh…oh Jesus…” 

Coffee. Come get some coffee. 

He didn’t want coffee, but what difference did it make? He pushed the tarp aside, and stood with his head just out of the hole. The darkness inside the ground stretched to the sky. Nixon knew the remnants and fragments of trees were within touching distance, just feet away, but he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see the other foxholes either. 

What time was it? Had he been asleep? Was he still asleep? Wait, he didn’t sleep anymore. Only two options existed, really. He was still in Bastogne or he was in Hell. But he knew he couldn’t be asleep. 

Nixon bit his tongue to keep from shouting, the trapped sound a sharp pain in his chest. Alien fear clutched him and propelled him out of his foxhole, into the snow, onto his knees. The ice crunched beneath him, melted, trickled like cold blood through his thin pants. 

Sick with vertigo, disoriented, confused, he remained motionless in the snow. He didn’t know the sky from the ground. Christ, what the fuck is this?

“Hey, Nix. Is that you?” A low whisper, a voice he recognized.

Nixon lifted his head. He wasn’t just imagining it, was he? “Dick?” 

Winters crouched beside him, resting his hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing?” 

“I don’t know…” 

“Come on, you’ve got to find some cover.” He grabbed Nix’s upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Nixon followed him back to the foxhole. Winters pulled the tarp over the hole, covering the tiny space. They settled shoulder to shoulder, thigh against thigh. 

Nixon’s chest began to tighten again. 

“Give me your lighter,” Winters whispered. Nixon handed it over with numb fingers. Seconds later, light filled the tiny hole, illuminating Winters’ worried face. “Are you sick?” 

“No.” 

“Are you drunk?” 

Nix shook his head. “I didn’t have enough to drink…” 

“How much did you drink tonight, Lew?” 

“Just one bottle…tonight.” Relieved, shaking, he touched Dick’s cheek with the tips of his cold fingers. Dick didn’t move or take his eyes from Nixon’s face. 

“I see.” 

“I thought I was dead.” 

“Are you injured? Should I find Gene?” 

“No, no. Maybe I was just dreaming. I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.” 

“I found you out in the open, freezing. You didn’t even hear me approach. You could have died.” He flicked the lighter closed, and Nixon blinked in the sudden darkness. 

“Yeah.” Shivering, Nixon wrapped his arms around himself. Freezing needles of pain pierced his fingers, making him long for the alarming numbness again. 

Winters grabbed Nix’s hands and brought them to his face. He folded Nixon’s fingers in his hands and blew against the tips of his frozen fingers. Nixon shuddered as Winters’ warm breath wrapped around his skin, heated his flesh, coaxed the feeling back. Nixon wished he could see him, wished he could see his face, wished he could see anything. 

Normally, they would try to fill the silent space between them with news, orders, strategies, or just old-fashioned gossip. If nothing else, Nixon could always reach for a joke, but he didn’t have anything to say. 

“Feel better?” Dick asked. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. It did feel better, and it hurt, too. 

Sometimes he was more than a little bit in love with Major Winters. 

“Do you mind sharing a foxhole with me for a few hours?” Dick asked. 

Nixon shook his head, and then realized that Dick couldn’t see him. “Of course not. It’s better to stay warm.” 

“Here…lay down…” 

Nixon laughed, though he wasn’t amused. “There’s no room, Dick.” 

“Straighten your legs…yeah, like that…” Somehow, they managed to avoid elbowing each other in the face and kneeing each other in the balls as they situated themselves in the tiny space. 

After several cramped seconds, Nixon found himself flat on his back, his head pillowed on frozen dirt. He ignored the clumps of ice and rocks digging into his back and neck, accustomed to the minor bruises that resulted. If he left the line, if he went back to HQ, he could sleep on a cot. With a blanket. Wrapped around another bottle of VAT-69. 

Winters settled on top of him. His legs were entwined with Nixon’s, their chests flattened together. Dick lowered his head, resting it against Nixon’s shoulder, and exhaled, tickling Nixon’s cheek. Nix closed his eyes and inhaled, filling his head with Dick’s familiar smell. Coffee, second-hand smoke, a vague whiff of the soap he used to shave, crisp snow, and sharp gunpowder. 

Dick had always been a thin man, but he had lost weight since D-Day. As did all the men in the company, a result of poor rations and endless marches. Even so, Nixon found the slight weight of his body calming. Focusing on Dick and the way his breath came in brief puffs of air against his skin, he could forget about the earlier fear. 

“Dick?” 

“Hmmm?” 

But he didn’t have anything to say. 

Maybe this is what death feels like, he mused. Snug. Secure. Warm. No pain. No terror. And I’m not alone. 

Yeah, maybe. And maybe you need to quit drinking. Dick’s voice in his head again. 

Dick turned his head slightly, and his lips brushed against Nixon’s cheek. They both froze in that position, locked in a half-embrace, sharing a whisper of a kiss. 

“Do you feel better?” Dick whispered against his skin. 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” 

Sometimes, Nixon couldn’t help but wonder if Major Winters wasn’t a little bit in love with him too.


End file.
